


For the First Time (For the Last Time)

by ARollingStone, HarveyDangerfield



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Image, Body Worship, Bottom Ford, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of Stuffing, Scars, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Tension, Top Stan, fat worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 05:45:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19717408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARollingStone/pseuds/ARollingStone, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyDangerfield/pseuds/HarveyDangerfield
Summary: Stanley is having some complications with his self esteem after Ford returns from the portal. Now that Ford is so battle-worn and trim he's feeling older and fatter than ever. That old girdle can't contain him forever.





	1. Chapter 1

_Journal Entry #1_  
 _July 20th, 3174 2012_  
  
 _Everything has changed. I shouldn't be surprised, but somehow I am. Some part of me had always hoped that I would go back in time when I returned to my home dimension, that I would return from the exact moment I left from, that I would find Stanley still sitting on the ground dumbfounded and grieving. That I would have a chance to correct my mistakes. It shouldn't have surprised me that my home dimension would have aged at the same rate I did no matter where I went or how long I spent away._  
  
 _Stanley has changed in ways I couldn't have ever begun to imagine. He's upright now, bold and confident like he used to be, tired and cautious in ways he must have lost things to become. I know he lost me, but it's been so many years, so many decades now that I can't help but wonder what else he lost. I'm too afraid to ask. I should have been here._  
  
 _I hit him when I returned, it's the first thing I did. I meant to, and I don't regret it. Not really. I think after everything, I deserve to get one good hit in, but now that the need has been satisfied, I won't do it again. Probably. Time will tell how he will test my patience. He's so much like the Stanley I lost it's dizzying, and so foreign to the Stanley I remember I barely recognize him. Being around him makes me feel strange in ways I both did and did not anticipate. Further observation required._  
  
  
  
Sometimes, Stan regrets the whole thing.   
  
Bringing Ford back, trying to get him to shake his hand, say thank you. Anything. He deserves that much, right? It's like Ford is ungrateful for Stan helping him to get back their world--like he could care less about everything Stan's lost along the way.   
  
He just doesn't care, and he's made that perfectly clear.   
  
The way Ford looks at him sometimes though, makes Stan second guess his anger. He catches him lingering in the doorway sometimes, like he wants to say *something* but he never does. Always, he just holds Stan's gaze for a few moments, then goes about his business, and Stan doesn't know what to make of it.   
  
He's changed.   
  
When he looks at Ford, he sees his brother, yet wholly another man. It's like the portal had taken his scrawny, nervous wreck of a brother and spat out someone completely different on the other side--he's so cold now, there seems to be no joy in his face anymore, no light to him. And Stan can't help but feel guilty, because he knows that he's the one who's done this to him--but he's also the one who brought him back. But then again, maybe that was a mistake.

  
  
_Journal Entry #6_   
_July 26th, 2012_   
  
_I don't know how to act around Stanley anymore. If I'm too friendly, he acts like he's waiting for a stab in the back. If I'm too cool, he acts hurt that I'm not being more... I don't know. More something. More affectionate, I suppose. Though if he expects any amount of affection from me after all these years, it demonstrates a massive misunderstanding of where I've been and what I've seen. If he finds me afraid, nervously checking the locks on the doors or jumping if he startles me, he acts wounded and guilty in a way I don't appreciate and don't have a clue how to deal with. Am I supposed to comfort him? Am I supposed to tell him it's okay? Nothing is okay, least of all me._   
  
_It's been nearly a week and nothing has gotten easier. Sleeping and eating on a schedule are still foreign to me, I catch myself hording food as if awaiting the next doomsday, being around people, even my own family for more than a few hours at a time makes me lock up. I fear coming back may have been a mistake. Stanley said he wanted to save me, but I don't think he was anticipating a project when he returned. I don't know what he was anticipating, but I know it wasn't this. I don't think he likes me very much anymore. I don't think I'd deserve it even if he did._

  
  
He just wants him to be okay--not all at once, but he'd thought that once things returned to normal, Ford might unclench a little, but really, Stan cannot grasp the scope of the things his brother has seen, and that's where the problem lies. He lacks the understanding, so when Ford flinches away from even the slightest touch, Stan's first reaction is anger or sadness, and he can *tell* that it's weighing on Ford just as badly, but he can't help himself.   
  
If he only knew the right thing to say to him, or if Ford would just thank him for all the work he'd done to bring him back. It's not as if Stan had lived in the lap of luxury either, he'd made real sacrifices, and destroyed his life for this moment, but now that it's here, he isn't sure how to even begin to mend things between he and Ford.   
  
And oh God, a big part of him wishes they could go back to the way things were. There's a lot of pain in Stanley that longs for those days before everything went to hell, but he knows he can't expect _that_ from Ford, as much as he wants. As much as he wishes. Whatever he and Ford used to have feels long buried, and Stan feels resigned to mourning over them every time Ford passes him or brushes him off.

  
  
_Journal Entry #13_   
_August 2nd, 2012_   
  
_Approaching the two-week milestone, I'm finally beginning to stop fearing the idea of going back. For three nights in a row I haven't woken up in a cold sweat with the weightless feeling of being dragged back into the portal. That isn't to say I'm sleeping through the night, but at least I'm waking up for other reasons, now. As my anxiety starts to slowly fade, I'm starting to notice other things about my surroundings. Stanley has put up a portrait of himself in nearly every room in the house. Where people even get professionally painted portraits done of themselves these days I have no idea, but no matter where I go in this house I used to cherish, I can't seem to escape Stan's eyes._   
  
_I would have expected Stanley to be the type to request alterations in his portraits, but he always looks remarkably like himself, give or take a few years. I can see the progression of the way his age has treated him through the years in my absence. He seems to have gone grey early, but he's managed to keep very fit and trim in a way I didn't expect. Stanley was always a bit heftier when we were young, especially up through his late teens. I suppose I have no room to judge the way the decades can change a body, heavens know I wasn't always shaped like this either, but I suppose if I expected any one thing to stay the same, it would be how soft Stan is. He looks so severe, standing upright all the time, so trim in his suits. It reminds me of dad. I don't know how to feel about it._

  
  
In reality, Stan just hasn't really taken his girdle off since Ford arrived.   
  
The only time he lets it all hang out, so to speak, is when he's locked behind the closed door of his bedroom at night, but he puts it back on first thing in the morning, and doesn't remove it well into the early hours of the morning. After two weeks, it's starting to wreak havoc on his back, standing up so straight with his gut sucked in--the kids have made remarks about it once or twice, which Stan has _quickly_ shushed.   
  
It's Ford's damned physique that's got his head all turned around.   
  
Where Ford's turned into an action-movie star, all chiseled muscle and hard, severe lines, Stan's gone soft ofter the years. Sure his arms are still something to be awed by, and his chest is plenty deep, but his gut's gone soft and flabby. He's so much *fatter* than when Ford had seen him last, and he just can't live with the shame of letting his brother see him like this, not with how _he_ looks, not after everything. It feels like admitting weakness.

  
  
 _Journal Entry #14_  
 _August 3rd, 2012_  
  
 _Stanley touched my shoulder today. I think it's the first time he's really touched me with purpose since my return. He looked at me while he did it. It made my stomach flip the way it used to. Some part of me expected to be over this by now, what we has as children surely isn't sustainable as adults. I thought I knew that by now, I thought I spent enough years, enough decades talking sense into myself. What did I expect, that I would fall back into his life like nothing ever happened, and we would pick up where we left off? Too much has changed._  
  
 _I came back filthy and emaciated, scarred and nervous. He was in love with a much younger Stanford, with babyfat on his belly and the stars in his eyes. The last of my stars went out years ago. This version of Stanford can't be loved, and I need to let myself down gently before I get my hopes up. He already sacrificed the last thirty years of his life to bring me back, I won't force him to waste any more time on trying to fix me enough to be lovable again. He deserves a rest._  
  
  
  
Stan tosses his keyes into a bowl in the front hall. He goes to the mirror there, and pulls the knot of his tie out, undoing the first few buttons of his shirt and lets his suit hang open. As he walks into the kitchen, looking for something to drink, he finds his brother sitting at the table, which bodes well at least for Stan's prospects of attempting to start a conversation with him, but as he's walking past, he notes that Ford is hunched over a journal, scribbling away--the journal that Stan had given him when he'd gotten back.   
  
After noticing that Ford was having a hard time articulating his thoughts, Stan had given him a new journal to catalog his feelings in, hoping at least to spark some depth to their interactions, and as soon as he sees Ford writing in it, he lights up.   
  
"Hey--issat the journal I gave yiz?" Stan asks--he doesn't really need to, he knows. "How's that workin' out?"   
  
Ford immediately sits up, startled by Stan's appearance, but he isn't flinching quite as bad as he was when he first came home anymore. "Oh, yes," he closes the journal, tucking the attached pen back into the elastic strap that holds the book closed. He glances Stan up and down, noting how handsomely disheveled he looks with his tie and shirt open, his undershirt visible, a bit of his chest hair peeking out, buttoned up tight and trim-- he really should be looking Stan in the eye. "I've been writing in it every day."  
  
He stands up straighter when he notices Ford taking him in--that's the first time he's _checked him out_ since he's been back, and Stan's ears go a little pink from it all. But even more than that, his heart thrums happily with Ford's words, but he tries to be cool and collected, "Yeah? Glad it's uh--goin' good." Smooth. "You were always good with words."   
  
"Maybe one day when I fill the journal, I'll let you read it," Ford says, standing up from the table, and he has to physically hold himself back from reaching out to fix Stan's crooked collar, where one side of his shirt collar has gotten stuck under his jacket lapel. His eyes cling to it for a moment, and then Stan's throat, where the stubble has grown down onto his neck. Clearing his throat, he finally forces his eyes back up to Stan's. He was just writing about how he has to put aside his old childhood feelings for Stan's sake, and now here he is, eyefucking him like a piece of meat. He feels selfish and embarrassed, and his own ears turn pink in return.   
  
"I should let you have your kitchen," he says, tucking his journal under his arm.  
  
Stan's eyes drop to Ford's chest, then back up to his lips and they linger there a long while before he speaks, his voice hoarse and deep in his chest, "You could uh-you could stay, if you're hungry..."   
  
Surely Stan didn't just check him out in return. _Surely_ he didn't. He was bashful, or upset about something, he couldn't have just looked at Ford's chest like he was sizing him up... surely not.   
  
"I already ate," he says, trying to sound casual. He needs to get out of this kitchen before something happens that Stan regrets.  
  
Stan growls something under his breath--it doesn't really sound like words, a noise of contemplation maybe, either way that sound rolls through Ford's belly, familiar but lower than he remembers, full of gravel and thunder and...this is getting a bit out of hand.   
  
His brother holds his gaze for a long moment, the electric tension stretching between them, during which time Stan looks him up and down, from the feet up, like he's trying to decide if he could eat a man whole, then he licks his lips and grunts, "Alright, suit yourself." and turns back to the fridge.   
  
Ford leaving the room is a blessing. Stan slouches down into his natural posture and instantly feels his back crack in three places. Standing upright in the girdle for so long every day is starting to put a lot of pressure on his back, so any time he can find a moment to just relax, he does but it's been hard with Ford around. It's hard to say how long he can keep this up, but Stan's in it for the long haul. 


	2. Chapter 2

Stan's pretty sure he heard somewhere that doing something that makes you feel sore is supposed to get easier with time, but three weeks deep into his stint in the girdle all day every day and it just keeps getting harder. Every day he wakes up and spends at least twenty minutes just staring at the ceiling, dreading stuffing himself back into that wretched thing. Part of him wonders if he should just give up, but the longer he sticks out this torture, the weirder it's gonna be if and when Ford finds out he's been faking being skinny this whole time.   
  
But still, it's absolute hell. He's out of breath all the time, exhausted, he even gets light headed sometimes from not being able to take in a deep breath for minutes at a time while talking to Ford. The kids have noticed, he knows they have, but every time they even look like they're thinking of asking about it, he just gives them money and shoos them out the door to go buy snacks or something, anything to get them out of Ford's earshot.   
  
But he can't avoid them forever. It's Mabel who comes up to him when he's outside, stabbing trash around the bottomless pit with a skewer (a chore he normally would delegate to Dipper, but the little runt is out hanging with Wendy) and standing perfectly upright, red-faced and winded. She just stands there watching him for a minute before finally asking, "Grunkle Stan, why have you been wearing your girdle so much since Grunkle Ford came home?"  
  
"None'a your business, ya little twerp." Stan grunts, spearing another can which he just tosses over the side of the pit, lost forever he hopes. "Go play with your pig."   
  
She sticks her hand in her bag of skittles and pops a few into her mouth as she watches him in silence for a few more seconds. But then she asks, "Are you showing off for him or something?"  
  
"No. Pfft. Why would I be doin' that?" Stan huffs--and puffs. His face is very red now. "It's just good for my back is all--besides, I'm tryin' to lose weight."   
  
"Mmmmmm I don't think that's how weight loss works. When my mom wanted to lose weight, she did a lot of sit ups and stuff, I don't think she ever tried to _squeeze_ it out of her. Besides, where would it all even come out? Your nose?" Mabel snort-laughs.  
  
"It's called _waist trainin'_ Kid. Women do it alla time. No reason I can't." He tosses more garbage over the side of the pit and sighs. "It doesn't matter anyways."   
  
"Waist training is so you can wear pretty dresses!" Mabel says, trotting over beside Stan and offering up her bag of skittles. Predictably, he accepts, and she dumps a few in his hand. "Why doesn't it matter?"  
  
"You're too young to geddit." Stan grunts, popping the skittles into his mouth. Even that feels like too much, his gut protests with a twinge of pain--he's spent too long in the damn thing, he's probably doing permanent damage.   
  
"I'm not!" she insists, throwing the empty bag of skittles over the side into the pit. "I'll understand, I promise."  
  
"Ahh no. It's stupid..." Stan says, dejected. He turns back to continue with the garbage clean up.   
  
She reaches out to grab the bottom of his coat with both hands. "No it isn't! Nothing you could ever do in your _whole life_ is stupid, Grunkle Stan," she looks up at him with big, glittery eyes.  
  
He looks down at her, resolve cracking apart as she looks at him. A big paw comes down to rest on her head and his breath hitches a little, "Ah Pumpkin.... all I ever wanted to do was be a good brother." he sniffles under his breath. "And I just feel like right now, I gotta be impressive, otherwise your Grunkle Ford's gonna be disappointed in me. More than he already is..."   
  
Mabel's face twists in confusion. "Well... I get that," she says. "But what's the girdle gotta do with it?"  
  
"You seen him lately?" Stan huffs. "He's built like a mac truck."   
  
"No he isn't," she argues. "He wears a turtleneck every day. And you're a boxer! Or you were... like a million years ago. Anyway, I get trying to impress boys to make them like you, but if there's one thing I've learned this summer, it's that if you pretend to be something you're not to impress someone, eventually the secret's gonna come out and it'll make everything worse. You remember the sock puppets?" she shudders.  
  
Stan chuckles, his hand returning to her head lovingly, "When'd you get so smart, huh?"   
  
"Pbbth, since like forever ago," she rocks back on her heels with a grin. "I'm almost thirteen you know, I'm pretty sure all the rest of the secrets of the universe will be revealed to me then."  
  
"Well, when ya turn thirteen, be sure to let your ol' Grunkle Stan in on some'a the secrets, cuz I think I missed out when I was your age." He mutters sweetly, and bends down to kiss her forehead--he immediately regrets it, as he feels a few seams pop in the worn-down sides of his girdle. "Run along now, sweetpea. I got work to do." 

  
It doesn't get easier, Ford's feelings for Stan. The more comfortable he gets at home, the more he finds his thoughts drifting from things like survival and anxiety to old comforts-- especially in Stan's presence. He avoids his brother more as the temptation to do or say something foolish grows stronger, he can hardly keep himself from raking his eyes over Stan's body whenever he's around his brother, remembering the way things used to be, longing for it again. He wonders what Stan looks like under his suit these days, how trim his waist has become, if he's as hairy or more than he was the last time he saw him when they were teens...   
  
Ford doesn't exactly have a healthy sexual appetite these days. He's taken a scant few lovers here and there over the decades, but he wouldn't call his sexuality a priority, much less a distraction. But these last few weeks with Stan have been... challenging.   
  
Perhaps his lab isn't the best place he could choose to touch himself, but he can't focus on his work anymore with these thoughts swirling in his head, imagining Stan coming downstairs and throwing him down on the couch behind his desk, tearing open his pants and growling something into his neck about how they have to make up for lost time... well, maybe if he just gives in this once, he can quiet those thoughts long enough for him to get back to work.  
  
Stan's in the same boat, so to speak--wanting for what it feels like is lost, but every time he looks at his brother, he thinks about how easy it'd be to throw him down onto the nearest surface and make them both remember what things used to be like. It's a preoccupying thought he has, in fact--whenever he's around Ford he can't stop looking at him. The way he's trimmed up and filled out over the years spent in the Otherworld makes Stan feel a strange and complicated mixture of guilt and lust.   
  
He's gotten close to breaking down and begging him for one night, several times. A touch on the shoulder here, a glance over the dinner table. Stan spends his nights touching himself to old memories, and new fantasies, trying to fill the ache in his heart, but it's not enough, and he knows it's just a matter of time before he cracks.   
  
And that's where he's at now. Pacing the living room like a tiger, trying to decide how to come at the situation. Stan's never been a strategist, he's never been good at being subtle either, not in these matters. The larger part of him just wants to go down to Ford's lab, grab him by his stupid turtleneck and kiss him stupid, but he's smart enough to know that's *too* direct, so he needs to take baby steps.   
  
So he gets into the elevator, and heads down, with a mind to ask Ford...to lunch. It's the best he could come up with. It's subtle, but not so much to be missed, a good place to test the waters. Stan feels very smug for having thought of it, too.   
  
Ford is on his back on the couch when he hears the elevator start to rumble. Panic lances through him, he'd only just come down from a truly spectacular and well-deserved orgasm a matter of seconds ago, but he doesn't have time to bask in the afterglow. Stuffing himself back into his pants, he hurriedly scrambles back to his desk and wipes his hand off with a tissue, chucking it into the nearby wastebasket-- which he misses. The tissue bounces off the rim and rolls across the floor, partially hidden under the coffee table in front of his couch. He only has enough time to run a hand through his messy hair and pray that Stan won't notice the tissue and start making assumptions as he hunches over his desk and tries to act natural while the elevator doors slide open.  
  
Stan doesn't say much as he crosses the lab and comes to his brother's side--there's two things he notices first. Ford's red cheeks, and the _smell_. It's heavy and lingers in the air, and more importantly Stan would recognize it anywhere as the scent of his brother's release. Ford had been jerking off?   
  
He tries not to draw any correlations, but he can't help but be intrigued the moment he realizes it. Circling around for other clues, he notices the hastily tossed tissue on the floor, and a few things out of place, including the fact that Ford still hasn't looked up at him.   
  
"You uh... you okay, Sixer?" He asks, raising a brow.   
  
"What? Oh, yes," Ford says, trying to sound like he was deep in thought, but he responded a touch too quickly for it to come off as natural. "Sorry, I was working on--" he glances down at whatever was on top of his desk previous to him sitting down. It's a cubix cube manual, he meant to hand off to Dipper earlier that morning. Clearing his throat, he shoves it out of the way. "Work. Can I do something--" no, that's in poor taste, considering what Ford was just up to. "Do you need something, Stanley?"  
  
"Yeah, I was just comin' to ask if ya wanted to go to lunch...ya know? I dunno." Stan scrubs the back of his neck anxiously, then looks down at his brother again, scrutiny heavy in his gaze. "You hot or somethin'? You're flushed."   
  
"Oh. Yes, it is a bit warm down here," Ford glances away. There's still a fine tremble in his thighs under his desk, an old reflex from his childhood that he's never quite been able to kick, despite his best efforts.  
  
Stan knows that tremble. He'd seen it many times when they'd fucked as teenagers. His voice is all smoke and whiskey when he says, "Maybe you oughtta take off your sweater."   
  
Oh, that voice. That voice has made Ford's guts turn to putty since they were kids. He swallows hard and looks back down, away from his brother, before he makes a bad decision. "No, that's alright."  
  
"C'mon," Stan leans on the desk. "It's hot--you got a shirt on under there anyways, right? Just take it off, you'll be cooler."   
  
Ford's stomach clenches. "No, I don't," he says. He can feel his cheeks physically heat up. Is Stan doing this on purpose?  
  
"You don't got a shirt on under your sweater? You're just wearin' it like a--" Stan trails off, and looks his brother up and down. He licks his lips, leaning harder on the desk--he's sweating, a dark spot forming in the middle of his chest. God he just wants to say something to Ford to break the tension, but he can't muster it. "You're just wearin' it like a shirt? Pfft, c'mon. Who does that?"   
  
"I don't like layers," Ford says stupidly, looking up again-- and that's a mistake. He feels another throb between his legs just beholding the way Stan is looking at him now. "They don't lay right on my skin."  
  
"Mmrghn...I bet." Stan growls, his eyes heavy now. He swallows the tense knot in his throat, and looks Ford over like he wants to pounce him, right here. "Wonder what _would_ lay right on your skin, hm Sixer?"   
  
That _had_ to be on purpose. There's no way to interpret that other than a come-on. Ford feels his cock twitch again, and all at once it does feel like no time at all has passed. They haven't even talked about it, they haven't said a word about the relationship they used to have-- but evidently they don't have to. Stan wants to pick up where they left off just as badly as Ford, even with their bad blood, even with their rocky relationship-- and who knows, maybe it might be enough to start mending things if they felt comfortable being intimate again.   
  
He reaches out, resting his hand on Stan's on his desk. "Stanley--"  
  
"Grunkle FORD!" Dipper's voice rings out, running down the stairs into his lab, bypassing the elevator entirely for speed. "I got the latest edition rulebook for DDMD! You're not gonna BELIEVE the changes they made to Unbeholders in this edition!"  
  
"Oh GREAT! The new editions of the DDMEGD book! Didja hear that, Ford?!" Stan yells, throwing his arms up. "How would we ever survive without the next installment of DMMGED?!"   
  
Oh he's livid--his face is so red he looks like a beet brought to life. "Argh! Have fun with your game, I'm goin' upstairs!" 

Ford has to very quickly put himself back together all over again as he receives the second emotional whiplash in as many minutes, but he can't help but watch Stan go as Dipper sheepishly starts to explain the new rules.


	3. Chapter 3

Ford hasn't been able to stop thinking about that Almost Something since it happened. It's been a couple days since then, and every time he and Stan make eye contact, it feels like a punch to the gut. A shiver inevitably rolls up his spine the moment blue eyes meet identical blue, but there hasn't been a single moment of peace for them to make good on... whatever this tension is. There's been too much work to do, with preparing the shack for being safe from Bill, they haven't had a moment alone together in three days.   
  
When a peaceful lull finally comes, Ford makes good on it immediately. After longing after his brother for decades and eyefucking for the past half week, he doesn't give himself a chance to talk himself out of it. He marches right up to Stan as he's closing the Mystery Shack for the day, counting the money in the till, and he clasps his hands behind his back.   
  
"Stanley, I have something to ask of you."  
  
He turns back to see Ford and groans, running a hand down his aching side. The girdle's squeezing him more tightly today than usual, because he'd laced it that way--he's standing up so straight he's afraid to even breathe too deeply for fear of popping the laces and the seams, and causing the whole thing to blow out, right in front of Ford, no less.   
  
"Yeah? What's up, Sixer? Need help with one of your experiments? Where's Dipper, I'm sure he'd help."   
  
"No, not an experiment," Ford says, clearing his throat. "I was hoping you would... join me. For dinner."   
  
Immediately realizing how awkward and stiff he's standing, he releases his hands from behind his back, only to let them hang awkwardly at his sides instead, and then once again second guesses himself and sticks his hands in his coat pockets, unable to meet Stan's eyes.  
  
Stan's trying to decide if Ford's closing the gap between them, following up on what had happened between them days ago. There's that tension between them again, and he can't shake it. There's still something electric buzzing his stomach for Ford, and he knows his brother must feel the same way, he must. With the way they've been looking at each other when they pass in the hall or happen to brush up against each other. If he doesn't take Ford up on his offer, it might squash any chance they have together.   
  
He smiles softly to his brother and scrubs the back of his neck, his sides twinging ominously. Eating on top of the girdle is going to be a nightmare, but one he's willing to put up with, "Yeah, I'd love to go to dinner with yiz."   
  
Ford releases a soft held breath. He'd been terrified that for some reason Stan would say no, and relief floods him when his brother takes up his offer. "Oh, good," he clears his throat. "I'll let you finish closing up and meet you in the parking lot in 20? I'll drive. I've been practicing driving earth vehicles again and I think I'm getting the hang of it."  
  
"I'll se ya in a few, sweet--" Stan cuts off, and glances away, his ears burning red. "S-Sixer."   
  
He rushes away before he has a chance to be chastised, and goes upstairs to change into something more comfortable, even if he doesn't forego the girdle. In fact, he laces it just a little tighter, and feels the fabric strain--oh he's going to pay for this later tonght.   
  
When he appears again, in the parking lot as promised, he's wearing a heathered gray shirt and his old, well-loved leather bomber, a pair of jeans and boots, and of course his fez. When he sees Ford, he smiles softly to him, and sticks his hands in his pockets. "Ready to go?"   
  
Ford, predictably, hasn't changed his clothes at all since confronting Stan in the gift shop, but Stan wouldn't have it any other way. He climbs into the driver's side of the jeep that Stan bought him upon his return, and waits for Stan to grab his seat belt with a command of 'buckle up,' before he pulls out of the driveway. Stan's neck tingles when Ford grabs the back of his seat in order to turn around and check behind him.   
  
They go to greasy's, and Ford makes a few comments about how this place used to be a tiny tea shop back when he was living here last, and Lazy Susan comes by to take their orders. Ford orders a simple plate of two pancakes with all the condiments on the side, and to his surprise, Stan orders light. Almost worryingly light. Stan has been known for his appetite since they were children, it was a point of great pride for his younger twin and a point of enormous pleasure for the both of them at certain times. It occurs to Ford then that he doesn't think he's seen Stan eat once since his return, and can only hope that has more to do with the fact that Ford has spent a great deal of time working, rather than the warning bells currently going off in his head worrying about an eating disorder that might have taken root sometime after he and his brother parted ways nearly forty years ago.   
  
"Is that all you're getting?" Ford asks, keeping his voice low and private as Susan walks away with their orders.  
  
Stan looks down at his dinner--some scrambled eggs and lightly buttered toast--and shrugs, "I'm not that hungry right now."   
  
A lie. He is, in fact, starving, but this is going to be about all he can muscle into his gut, it being as constricted as it is. Any more, and he might throw up. Lately, he's been eating the bulk of his food late, late at night when Ford's tucked away in the lab. For now, he just eats what's on his plate.   
  
"Gotta watch my figure ya know? Got an image to uphold." He adds on, taking a bite from the scramble.   
  
"Watch your--" Ford's worst fears are coming close to being confirmed. He tries not to jump to conclusions as he spreads butter and whipped cream on his pancakes, but dread fills his chest. "You don't need to do that, Stanley. You look... fantastic. You look healthy. You don't need to count calories."   
  
He doesn't say what the voices in his head are whispering-- that he misses his brother's bulk, misses when he was wide and vast and soft and could consume him in a single embrace. He's not selfish enough to express to his brother that he has preferences for how he should look, especially now that they aren't really... anything, anymore. But still, he can't help but worry.  
  
The seam of the girdle creeks against Stanley's side--the ache is so painful that he's having a hard time breathing, but disguising it well enough right now that Ford can't tell. And now, he's thinking other things. Ford's comment reminds him of when they were younger, and Stan would eat like stupid at dinner, sometimes until his belly hit the table, and he recalls Ford _liking_ that. His resolve on the girdle situation then, starts to break down, but he reminds himself that now, it's less about appearing fat to his brother, and more about the fact that he's carried on the lie for _so long._   
  
How he's going to skirt around intimacy, if it comes, is another story. Maybe there's such a way for him to unlace the girdle bit by bit over the next month or two to make it seem like he's putting on weight, but that's a far-fetched thought at best. The thought of coming clean though, makes Stan's skin crawl. There's no telling what Ford's reaction might be.   
  
"It was always hard for me to lose weight." Stan says, in 'defense' as he takes a bite of toast. It's not enough, it's not _nearly_ enough for him, but each bite makes the girdle feel so much _tighter_. "I knew you was gonna come back from that place all jacked to hell, didn't wanna be a slouch. How d'ya think I got there? Wasn't by poundin' back sodas and cupcakes." (Yes it was)  
  
Ford gives a sad sort of smile, turning his hand over and inspecting the very end of a scar that peeks out from the end of his sleeve, etched a centimeter into his palm. "Jacked is a word for it," he says, looking back up at his brother. "I don't want to talk about that place, not right now. I don't want to talk about what we've lost, there will be so much time to catch up on all that later, when it's not all so... fresh."  
  
Stan's eyes prickle, but the tears don't fall. He sniffles, and wipes his nose. "Yeah. Guess so. What would ya rather talk about?"   
  
Ford takes a bite of pancake as he thinks for a moment, and then wipes syrup from his chin with his napkin. "What do you want to do next? Now that your life's work is complete. What's next for Stanley Pines?"  
  
"I dunno..." Stan says, trying to keep his cool. Really, he feels like he's been kicked in the chest. A shred of him had hoped that he and Ford might sail away on that boat someday when he'd gotten back, but it'd taken so long, and now they're both tired old men. "Maybe I'll go on vacation. Live like a wild man in the Bahamas or somethin'..." it's clear he hasn't given it much thought, the plan to bring Ford back had so consumed him that there was nothing leftover to think of the future.   
  
Ford's soft smile fades slightly as he pushes another bite of pancake through the syrup before lifting the gooey bite. "You would look good with a tan. Maybe a beard? I'll be honest, I expected you'd have one by the time I got back. You always struck me as the beardy sort."  
  
Stan chuckles, "Halfway to a beard already--maybe I'll grow one if you uh..." he wants to say 'if you'd like that' but chokes up, "if ya think it'd look good on me."   
  
"I think it would make you look very dignified," Ford answers, perhaps with a bit too much haste. "I tried the beard things a few times. I always just look homeless."  
  
"Dignified, huh?" Stan ducks his head, ears turning pink. He looks up at Ford after a moment and smiles. "It's uh...ya know we been--" he stops himself, and frowns, shaking his head. "I know we been fightin' a lot but I'm still glad you're here."   
  
Ford smiles again, and looks down at his plate. It's hard for him to keep willing himself to eat when Stan is eating like a bird, but despite the odd guilt clawing at his chest knowing that Stan had put himself through hell to get fit for his brother's return just because he didn't want to be an embarrassment, it's hard to convince himself to eat the second pancake.   
  
"I'm glad I'm here, too," he admits, and it's the first time he's done so. It's still not quite the thank you that Stan has been looking for, but he hopes it's enough to satisfy him-- at least for now. At least until Ford feels less guilty about coming home, and he actually has the room to feel grateful for being back at all. It isn't a lie at the least for him to say he's glad to be near Stan again, and he's glad to have met Mabel and Dipper. The rest will be a trial for even him to overcome.   
  
With dinner finished, Ford feels the ache in his chest as he thinks about going back to the house and splitting their separate ways, returning to the lab while Stan goes off to bed, alone, again. He's still too afraid of rejection to ask to join him, but he can't bear the thought of cutting their evening short when the sun is barely starting to set, so he slows down as they pass the lake, practically stopping in the middle of the road, and looks over at his brother.   
  
"Take a walk with me?" he asks hopefully.  
  
Oh, Stan would groan if he could without arousing suspicion. His poor tummy is stuffed from just that little bit of food, because the girdle is crowding out every possible free inch of space. He can barely take a breath now, but he can't just say *no* to Ford, this is forward momentum, he'd be an absolute *fool* to say no.   
  
So he agrees, and the two of them walk across to the lake, Stan trying to hide the fact that he can't breathe by standing upright and trying to give his lungs all the room they can to expand, but his diaphram is choked out by the girdle's boning and he can feel himself losing the will to live.   
  
Ford's pace is leisurely, and at least Stan is afforded the luxury of Ford looking out at the water, so he doesn't have to hold himself quite as rigidly, unless it seems like Ford's about to look back over at him, then he snaps back up to attention. He'll let his gut relax whenever he has the opportunity to, and even then the girdle holds it in place so severely that fully relaxed it only presses out against his shirt like he'd eaten just a bit too much at dinner. He sucks it back in again whenever Ford looks over at him, and he's right back in hell.   
  
Oblivious to his brother's struggle, Ford just enjoys the silence with Stan for a while as they walk, deep in his thoughts. It isn't until they've made half the circuit around that he finally breaks a question that has been gnawing at him ever since he came home, and he can't bear to put it off any longer, or let this almost, whatever continue without asking.   
  
He doesn't look at Stanley when he asks it, with his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes out at the lake as they stroll. "Did you ever fall in love again?"  
  
Stan doesn't answer for a long time, he's just quiet, trying to piece his thoughts together. Then he looks out over the water, past Ford and replies, "There was Peaches, but I left her to come here when ya called me...not your fault though, I was just lookin' for an excuse anyways. Wasn't any good for her."   
  
He looks down at his feet then as they start to walk again, "Had a fling after I went to prison again--you was already in the Otherworld by then, but it wasn't nothin' serious. After that, I just kinda slept around when I felt like I needed to get rowdy. Me and Lazy Susan almost had somethin' but I chickened out."   
  
Ford is silent for a long time, in response. The only sound is the soft noises of frogs waking up, peeping and croaking in unison, and the crunching of their feet on the gravel path making a circuit all the way around the lake. They watch as summer insects skim the water in the dying light of sunset, and the lamp posts surrounding the lake all start to flicker to life as it gets slowly darker.   
  
Finally he asks, "Was it ever the same?"  
  
Stan searches Ford's face in the soft light of sunset, his eyes watery and he replies honestly, "No. Nothin' ever even came close."   
  
Ford knows he shouldn't smile at his brother's admission that he never loved again the same way he loved him. He knows that should be something he should feel sad about, or guilty for, but the truth is that nothing was ever the same for him, either. He finally looks across at Stan with a soft smile, but says nothing else for the rest of their walk around the lake, just enjoying his company in silence. 


	4. Chapter 4

The car ride home is equally quiet, and as they enter the house it's gone pitch black. Mabel and Dipper are off somewhere making mischief, if the silence in the house is anything to go by, meaning it's just the two of them. There's a strained bit of eye contact in the foyer of their home as both of them desperately wills the other to invite them to the bedroom, but both of them are too scared of what it would mean for them, how badly things would break if the other were to say no. Things are delicate now, they know that. So Ford says good night and heads for his lab.   
  
He's barely halfway to the elevator before something grips him in the chest. Whether it's the forces of fate or his balls finally waking up to demand attention, the idea of taking one more step towards the elevator for a quiet night of research, work and what-could-have-beens becomes unbearable, and he freezes halfway through the gift shop. Now or never, he follows the whims of his feet, his coat fluttering behind him as he turns on his heel and heads for the stairs. He doesn't let himself think, doesn't give his brain a chance to talk himself out of this as he approaches the door to Stan's bedroom and pushes it open without even knocking.   
  
"Stanley," his voice comes out choked as he stands in the doorway, and his brother's startled frame shoots up from where he'd been sat on the edge of the bed, undoing his tie. There's a moment of strange, tense eye contact before in a broken, terrified voice, Ford begs, "Kiss me."  
  
Stan stares at him for a minute, his breathing erratic, heart beating so hard he can feel it in his _spine_. He gulps for air, those words alight in his brain and an electric thrum of arousal shoots down straight into his cock, and he's hard in seconds, dizzy with it, but more so the pain in his gut and his groin is impossible as his dick fights with the girdle for room.   
  
"Ow...ow, ow ow..." Stan groans, doubling over with pain and clutching his belly.   
  
Panic grips Ford. This isn't what he was expecting. He'd been envisioning some kind of dramatic moment where Stan would spring up and kiss him with fire and passion up against the wall, but instead it seems like he's somehow struck his brother with _pain_ by asking for a kiss. His chest tightens as he hurries to Stan's side, his hands shooting forward to look for injury, his voice strained as he begs his brother's name. He doesn't know what's happening, he just knows he's afraid.  
  
"Oh God..." Stan groans, he straightens back up, as soon as Ford's hand is on his tummy the girdle gives way and rips right up the seams, Stan's belly surging forward to its full glory. He's three times wider, and soft around the edges at last, and as his belly wobbles like jello into place, he moans like he's just had the best orgasm of his life. "Oh, shit." Stan laughs. "Ugh...guess that was bound to happen sooner or later." He rubs the side of his aching belly and looks up at Ford, embarrassed. "Guess you got a lot to say now, huh?"   
  
The sound is what hits Ford first. It's like a gun going off, startling him into falling backwards. He sits on his feet in front of his brother, his eyes wide and his hand clamped over his mouth as he stares down at the _mountain_ of a stomach sitting in front of him now, soft and oozing onto Stan's thighs from his slouched position. He's so shocked, his brain running a million miles a minute, that all he can do is look up at Stan's eyes with the same dumbfounded expression, his face bright red and hand still pressed firmly over his mouth.  
  
Stan sits back on the bed with a sigh, his gut conforming to his lap, heavy and soft, like a big marshmallow, while his cock strains at the seam of his pants, his shirt far too small now that the girdle's given way. He puts his hands on his knees, and looks at Ford, "Ya don't gotta look at me like I'm some kinda freak'a nature. Ya know I was always fat."   
  
Ford still can't bring himself to move or breathe or say anything. His own cock has jumped to attention, straining at the front of his briefs, but his tent isn't as dramatic, kept in place by tight underwear. He's absolutely shocked into total stillness, his other hand still just hovering in midair with the first trapping his words and breath behind it in his mouth.  
  
"I geddit. Just go if you're gonna go." Stan slumps and looks away from his brother. "I was tired anyways. Don't need you judgin' me too."   
  
Stan's embarrassment finally seems to get through to Ford, and he's able to pry his hand off his mouth with a muted, soft, "I just... thought you were thinner than this."  
  
"Yeah! I know. I geddit!" Stan growls. "I'm a big fat ugly failure. Just get out."   
  
Ford's eyes finally flick back up from Stan's stomach to his face, his ears burning as he realizes how his words have been interpreted, and he kneels up taller to rest his hands on Stan's knees.   
  
"Allow me to rephrase," he says, his chest almost brushing Stan's belly. "I was _afraid_ you were thinner than this."  
  
Stan's head droops, and he gives a relieved laugh, scrubbing the back of his neck. "I'm uh...I'm a lot fatter than the last time ya saw me. Sorta settled in, I guess."   
  
Ford reaches forward tentatively, undoing the remaining buttons of Stan's shirt and pulling it apart and out of his slacks, to find the ruined remains of a defeated shapewear garment sagging around his waist, and his brows furrow. "Have you been wearing this since I got back?"  
  
"Yeah..." Stanley admits, shame coloring his voice thickly. Where the shapewear's given way, there are red grooves in Stan's tummy, and even bruises on his love handles. "I didn't want ya to be disappointed in me."   
  
"Disappointed? Oh, Stanley," he reaches up to cup Stan's cheek, still kneeling between his legs. For the second time, and with more confidence now he says, "Kiss me."  
  
Stan growls under his breath, grabs Ford by the front of the shirt and yanks him bodily against him, their mouths crushed together so hard and suddenly that their teeth scrape. He moans into Ford's mouth, stubble scratching together and he wraps an arm around him, Ford squished up against him, all of him, and he finally remembers what his brother feels like.   
  
Tears fill Ford's eyes as he throws his arms around Stan's neck, leaning up into his embrace. He laughs into Stan's mouth, relief flooding him from head to toes. He'd been so afraid, so deathly afraid that Stan wouldn't want this after he came home, that it was a massive reason he'd always been afraid to consider looking for a way home at all, even if he'd managed to defeat Bill. Being apart from Stan forever would have been easier than going home and not being able to be with him again.   
  
"Oh god I missed you," he gasps, putting a foot to the floor so he can stand, already shucking his jacket and throwing it to the ground with an ominous clunk that he doesn't seem to want to address as he pushes Stan down on the bed and climbs on top of him to continue the kiss.  
  
"Missed you too." Stan says, his voice raw and low, and he wraps his arms around Ford again, too afraid of losing him not to seizue the opportunity to do so. His tongue slides into Ford's mouth--Stan tastes like cigar smoke and something sweet, a different taste than when they were young kids, but delightful in its own way, but he *smells* the same, and the embrace of his arms is just as strong as Ford remembers, but they resemble pythons even more now that he's older and full of deep muscle.   
  
He claws at Stan's shoulders until his brother gets the idea, and he's able to twist the jacket and shirt off of him, throwing them to the floor. It's a bit more maneuvering after that to get his pants off, and peeling off the ruined girdle is a chore, but then Stan is laying beneath him in nothing but his boxers and socks, and Ford straddles his hips in order to just look down at his brother. Stan tries to reach up to encourage him to strip as well, but he catches Stan's hands and pushes them gently back down to his pillow with a whispered command of "Not yet."  
  
Stan is so different to what he remembers, and so much the same. He's still covered in hair, though it seems to have grown long enough over the years to curl, and it's gone grey over his chest and belly, both of which are still striped with angry red lines and delicate bruising. Ford runs his fingers over the purple mottling at Stan's waist and hips where he'd been lacing the thing much too tightly, and his brows pinch with worry as it all starts to come together and make sense in his head. Stan's sheepishness around him, his stiffness, his lack of appetite... all because he was afraid Ford would be disappointed to find out Stan was still fat. He'd always been fat.   
  
"You... are so beautiful," he whispers, his fingers running up from Stan's hips to his chest.  
  
"Stanford." He mutters, running his hands up and down his brother's forearms, then his biceps. He's all hard lines, no fat on him at all anymore. It pains him to see Ford like this, but all at once he sort of comes into focus, and he accepts that this _is_ his brother now, and while he might not be the same, he's still just as handsome, just as devestating to behold as back then.   
  
"We're not kids anymore, huh?" Stan says, his voice hitching with tears. "You've changed."   
  
"So have you," Ford says fondly, his hands sliding up to cup both sides of Stan's face. "We're old men now."  
  
"Always said--" Stan's voice chokes with tears, "I always told ya, you was a late bloomer."   
  
"I remember," Ford smiles, his weight settled comfortably on Stan's hips. He feels his brother's hands come up to his waist again, and though this time he doesn't push them away, he does catch them before they have a chance to push up his sweater, and he glances away self consciously. "Stanley, I... want to prepare you for what you're going to see. It won't be easy to look at."  
  
Stan's hands hover over the hem of Ford's sweater, he can hear him breathe in the dark. "Scars...?"   
  
"Many," Ford confirms with a nod, still unable to look at his brother. "And... tattoos. Not my proudest moment."  
  
"Whatever it is, ya gotta let me face it. Look I know it was my--" Stan cuts himself off, and sniffles wetly, "It was my fault ya ended up in that place. Lemme look--You seen me, now it's my turn."   
  
Cautiously, Ford lets Stan ruck his sweater up and off his head. The light in the bedroom is dim, but Stan is able to see from light filtering in under the hallway door and through the obscured window, that Ford hadn't been exaggerating when he said 'many.' His entire torso is covered in so many scars that it's hard to tell if there's any skin left, old puckered ones deep and pink, and fresh ones raised and red, all stretching this way and that, newer ones bisecting older in criss-crossing patterns. The tattoos are curling black tentacles, torn through in some places by fresher scars, and inked over old ones in other places, curling around his waist and chest and stomach and down his hips. There's clear evidence that the scars continue down his legs, bisecting the muscle that has tightened his body from the skinny, soft nerd he remembers.   
  
Oh god, the muscle. His belly is concave and hard, with a prominent vee dipping into his slacks, and a hard line delineating chest from stomach, his whole torso covered in a thick layer of groomed hair that he definitely didn't have even a whisper of when they were kids, and he was smooth like an oiled seal from head to toe, even later in their teens. He looks like a proper man now, chiseled and hairy... the scars are the only thing that interrupt the perfect fantasy of what Stan might have imagined his brother to grow up into someday.  
  
"Lookit you," Stan chokes, tears spilling properly down his cheeks. He touches Ford tender and soft, rolling his fingers from hip to chest, and down his arms, touching and exploring his scars with a reverent sort of awe, but there's a healthy pit of guilt clenched in his stomach; but this is who Ford is now, there's no changing who he's become, and lying in the dark together, they look at each other, truly, for the first time since they'd parted ways.   
  
Stan runs his hand up Ford's jaw, and turns his head so he's looking at him, "I need you, Stanford."   
  
Ford trembles in Stan's lap, overwhelmed by how close they are, how real this has become. How badly he needs Stanley, too. If some force came along to tear them apart a second time, he doesn't think he could survive it.   
  
Quietly, voice rough, he says, "Then have me."  
  
That's all Stan had needed. Permission. He lays Ford down delicately, as if he could do anything to hurt him, and he pulls off the rest of their clothes so they're both stark naked on the bed, with only a sliver of moonlight to illuminate them. Stan drops down, and kisses up the V of Ford's hips, tracing over scars with his lips, while taking Ford's weighty cock in his hand and jerking him slowly, no real intention to get him off, he just wants to make him feel _good_.   
  
Stan kisses up his chest, explores his muscles with his mouth, and glides his fingers carefully up, then down his cock, and back up again where he stops to tease the head with his thumb, spreading the bead of pre he summons over the glans while he closes his mouth over Ford's nipple.   
  
Ford can hardly believe what he's feeling. Stan's hands, his mouth on him again for the first time in decades, in ways he's only been able to dream about for so many years. It's overwhelming, tears spill down his cheeks as his hips buck shallowly into Stan's hand, pleasure overwhelming him completely. He outright shouts when Stan's mouth closes over his nipple, still utilizing that sweet spot against him after all these years.   
  
"Stanley," his voice wheezes out of him as his cock leaks in Stan's hand. "I haven't... been touched in so long, I'm not-- not going to last very long tonight."  
  
Stan peeks up at him from his chest, and slips away with a nod. He procures the bottle of lube from his bedside table, noting that this is the first time it'll be used for something other than a lonely jerk session, and he squirts some into his hand. He's quick to prep Ford, focusing on stretching him until he's ready to recieve, trying not to overwork him too much for fear of causing him some amount of grief if he cums too early, and once his brother is feeling warm and loose, Stan kneels between his legs and presses a big paw down onto his belly.   
  
"Do ya wanna be on top or...?" Stan asks, just trying to sense his brother's needs. It's been awhile, afterall.   
  
His entire body buzzing with the relief of being touched again by Stan after so long without, like an addict finally getting a fix after being strung out for longer than he can remember, Ford can barely register Stan's words at all. Pleasure makes his body feel heavy and numb, and he arches his hips up into the air when he feels the absence of Stan's touch.   
  
"No," he gasps out, pawing at Stan's shoulders. "I want to stay like this, I want to see you... I need to see you." He needs to know this is real.  
  
"Okay, sweetheart." Stan murmurs, and he slicks his cock, holding Ford down by the tummy, then presses the thick head inside. As he fits down to the root, Stan's mouth drops open--he thought it'd be different, after all these years, to be inside of Ford. Maybe it's nostalgia, or some other kind of mind altering feeling, but being enveloped by him feels just as he remembers--and the feeling makes Stan feel like, after all these years, hoping and praying and hustling to get his brother here, that it's _him_ who has finally come home.   
  
Inside now, Stan opens his eyes and looks down at Ford, a fond smile pulling at his lips before he starts to move, a hand gripping Ford under the knee, the other on his hip, and they move together sympatico, like no time has passed.   
  
"Stanford...Stanford..." he chants his name, rolling his hips up, backlit by moonlight, watching Ford, not daring to close his eyes for one second.   
  
Ford's jaw went slack the moment Stan pushed into him, and he hasn't been able to close it since. He feels stretched open and raw, his thighs shaking in Stan's grip, and he barely makes a sound as his body struggles to come to terms with this level of pleasure after so long abstaining. His eyes roll back and his head presses into the pillows as he rocks down into the feeling, a gust of air finally leaving him in one loud grunt of ecstasy.   
  
He remembers Stan being big when they were kids. He remembers his brother's cock always reaching him somewhere inside he's never been able to reach ever since, both physically and emotionally. He thought he'd been prepared for this again, he didn't expect he ever could have forgotten what it felt like-- but evidently he had. His entire body trembles with what is essentially taking a monstrous cock for the first time, considering how long it's been, the pleasure-pain very nearly making him black out it's so intense.   
  
His voice finally finds him in a rush when the stretch dulls from a sharp sear to a throbbing, pleasant ache, and Stan's cockhead finds his prostate with a heavy slam. His back arches up into a pretty curve and he shouts at the top of his lungs, one of his hands darting up to hold the pillow behind his head while the other sinks nails into Stan's shoulder, and he turns his head to tuck his nose against his own shoulder as fire burns across his skin. The tears return, shining on his cheeks, but not of pain or even pleasure-- he's just overcome, body and soul, with _joy_.  
  
Stanley breaks the space between them, and lies out over his brother. He's not afraid of squishing him, Ford's made of tougher stuff than that. Laying on top of him, his full weight pins Ford to the bed, body hair scratching and pulling at Ford's skin, hot and rough, just as he remembers yet wholly different--Stan's so heavy, so _soft_ , his tummy pressing down atop Ford like a big cloud, warm and weighty, and his hips piston against his, filling him over and yet over again with all Stan has to give.   
  
He kisses him again, pulling Ford's mouth away from his shoulder and covering it with his own. They moan into each others mouths, Ford's hands find Stanley's broad, fuzzy shoulders, and Stan's whole body slams into his, picking up speed, their skin slapping together on impact.   
  
Stan gruffs into his mouth, "I love you... I love you. Don't leave me again."   
  
"Never," Ford gasps, clawing at Stan's back as tears leak down his cheeks into his ears. "Never, never."  
  
He wasn't kidding himself when he warned that he wouldn't last long tonight. His body seizes up with pleasure after just a few minutes of being wrapped up in Stan's embrace, and his approaching orgasm is heralded first by several hard, throbbing involuntary flexes of his stomach., an old tell that Stan finds himself struck with nostalgia by, remembering the days when they were kids and he would wait for the signs of Ford's coming orgasm in order to cover his mouth (Ford would forget to do it himself half the time)   
  
"Stanley-- _Stanley!_ Oh _god_ \--" Ford arches again, pinned down by the delicious pressure on top of him, and he shoots off just a moment later between their bellies with an almost pained wail, his prostate sending powerful waves of pleasure through his body with every nailing strike of Stan's cockhead against it.  
  
Stan cries out, Ford's pulsing body drawing him to the deepest point, and those powerful tugs against him create such a deep instinct in Stan that he cums within seconds of Ford. His body goes rigid, not nearly as pretty as Ford's arching back, he growls into his brother's neck until his breath slows a little, and his body relaxes. Then, he just peppers lazy kisses along Ford's neck, his eyes heavy and soft.   
  
Ford is left shaking and weak under Stan, absolutely satisfied and raw with emotion. In so many ways it truly does mirror their first time, when they were kids who couldn't last for more than a few minutes. After a moment he laughs breathlessly, and his laughter is broken by soft sobs of joy as he wraps his arms around Stan's shoulders and just holds him for dear life.  
  
Stan rolls off of him, and immediately scoops him up into his arms, squeezing all the good sense out of him. "MMrgh! If you ever leave me again, I'm gonna rip a hole through space-time just to drag ya back here myself, ya understand?"   
  
"You already did," Ford laughs breathlessly, draped over Stan's chest like he doesn't have any bones.  
  
"You know what I mean." Stan grunts, rubbing his sweaty brow against Ford's cheek.   
  
With a soft huff of laughter, Ford says, "I know what you mean."

  
  
Morning comes with a strange kind of peace, as the two stir from one another's arms. They wake up stiff and sore but satisfied, and take a few moments to simply bask in the sensation of waking up side by side. Words are not exchanged as they untangle from the sheets in the too-small bed, each of them silently registering that they're going to need to get a much larger one if they intend to keep sharing-- and oh, they do.   
  
They climb into the shower together and lovingly soap one another up in comfortable silence. It feels so strange to be together like this, to be so mundane. At the same time it feels like this is always how it was supposed to be to the point they don't know any differently, and like this is such a precious beautiful change to what their lives might have been that they can't dare take it for granted. It feels both sacred and ordinary as they head down into the kitchen, and Ford sits at the kitchen table while Stan puts together breakfast for them. The kids still aren't home, they probably spend the night at Wendy's or something-- they'll wander home sooner or later.   
  
Home, Ford realizes he just thought of here as home. He knew it was technically his home, but he's pretty sure he hasn't thought of it on his own until this moment, as Stan sets their breakfasts on the table and they sit down to eat together for the first time since his return. These last couple of weeks have been a lot of doing things for the first time all over again, and though his and Stan's relationship is nowhere near repaired, he can say with the utmost confidence that come hell or high water, he and Stanley will make sure that this will be the last time they ever have to do anything for-the-first-time for the second time ever again.


End file.
